Page 41 of Beneath the Surface

But Quinn deserved better than easy answers.

“Afghanistan,” he said finally, his voice going quiet. “I was part of a convoy that got hit by an IED. Bomb hidden in a dead donkey on the side of the road. Killed three of my friends. I survived because I was in the last vehicle. Pure luck.”

Quinn’s expression softened, her eyes going gentle. “I’m sorry.”

“After that, I became the disposal guy. When we found IEDs, I dealt with them. Disarmed hundreds of them over two deployments. Saved a lot of lives.” Dax set down his fork with careful precision, his appetite gone. “But I couldn’t save my friends. Couldn’t go back and stop that first bomb. All I could do was make sure it didn’t happen again.”

“And this case is the same thing.” Her voice was soft, understanding.

“Yeah. I can’t save your father or Thomas Crane. They’re already dead. But I can stop Wheeler from killing anyone else. Can make sure you don’t end up like them.” He met her eyes, holding her gaze. “That’s why I’m doing this. Because letting guilty people walk free means someone else dies. And I’ve seen enough death.”

Quinn was quiet for a long moment, her throat working as she swallowed. Then she reached across the table and put her hand over his where it rested beside his plate.

“Thank you,” she said softly, her fingers warm against his skin. “For caring. For trying. For not giving up.”

Dax looked at her hand on his. Small. Warm. Trusting. Her fingers were slender, her nails short and unpolished. He could feel her pulse against his wrist, quick and steady.

He should pull away. Should maintain professional distance. Should remember that she was a witness, not a friend, and definitely not anything more.

Instead, he turned his hand over and squeezed hers briefly, his calloused palm rough against her softer skin, before letting go. The loss of contact felt like something torn away.

“Eat your breakfast,” he said gruffly, his voice coming out rougher than intended. “You’re going to need your strength.”

“For what?”

“For staying in this cabin all day while I’m gone. No internet, limited phone access, nothing but books and boredom.” He stood and carried his empty plate to the sink, the water running cold as he rinsed it. “Think you can handle that without trying to escape?”

“I’ll try my best.” Her tone was light, teasing.

“That’s not reassuring.”

Quinn grinned, that brightness returning to her face. “I know.”

Dax shook his head, fighting a smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth. She was impossible. Stubborn and reckless and way too cheerful for someone whose life was in danger.

But damn it, he liked her. More than he should.

He finished his coffee in two long swallows, the last dregs bitter and cold, and headed for the shower. “I’m leaving in an hour. Door stays locked. Windows stay locked. Shotgun’s in the closet if you need it. You remember where?”

“Next to the bathroom. Safety’s on.”

“Good. Don’t shoot me when I come back.”

“No promises if you’re late.”

Dax did smile then. Couldn’t help it. The expression felt rusty on his face.

Forty-five minutes later, he was dressed and ready, his hair still damp from the shower. Jeans, dark-blue button-down shirt, his detective’s badge clipped to his belt—the metal weight familiar against his hip. His service weapon holstered at his other hip, the leather holster creaking slightly as he adjusted it.

Quinn had changed into real clothes—jeans and a green sweater that brought out the amber in her eyes. Not that Dax was noticing. She’d pulled her hair back into a ponytail, a few strands escaping to frame her face.

“Wish me luck,” he said at the door, his hand on the knob.

“Good luck. Try not to get fired.” She stood a few feet away, her arms crossed, but her expression was worried.

“I’ll do my best.” He pulled his keys from his pocket, the metal jangling.

“Dax?”